


Broody's Brand of Comfort

by Backne



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4181961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backne/pseuds/Backne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Fenris conducts a heartfelt attempt to comfort Hawke about his loss involving the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broody's Brand of Comfort

Hawke wasn’t taking Leandra’s death well. Between the crippling guilt and the trauma of witnessing the monster she had been turned into at the hands of a fellow mage, the whole ordeal had taken a hefty toll. But being the man that he was, he put on a brave front for his companions and coughed up the first wiseass remark that popped into his head whenever possible.

Fenris could see through the act, though. They all could. It was in the way he forced himself to laugh even with that far off look in his eyes, the sluggishness with which he moved in the heat of battle. He was starting to resemble an overgrown raccoon with the darkening bags that had taken shape under his eyes. His face had turned sallow and his features gaunt, his shaggy mop of hair oily and unwashed, his beard untrimmed so that hair grew down his neck unchecked. At Varric’s urging he still took a few odd jobs from around Kirkwall, but his behavior was subdued in comparison to his normal exuberance, and his usually witty commentary came out uncomfortably morbid at times. He was even avoiding the weekly games of Wicked Grace with the gang at the Hanged Man.

It appeared that no one knew what to do. Anders had been avoiding so much as eye-contact with Hawke while casting especially hateful looks in Fenris’s direction, and even Varric seemed to be at a loss when the elf came to the tavern to express his concern.

“I don’t know what to do for him, Broody, I truly don’t. I’ve made it clear that I’m here for him if he needs anything, tried to coax him down here for a drink, Rivaini has too, but you know how stubborn Hawke can be. And if he’s so intent on pretending he’s alright, how can any of us hope to help him? No offense, but he’s starting to act like you–he’s all but shut himself in.” The dwarf heaved a heavy sigh and reached up to massage his right temple in slow circles. “Maybe he just needs some time to himself to cope. He’s the last of the Hawkes now, after all. That’s a lot to take in.”

“And what of Anders?” Fenris asked, glancing over his shoulder and scuffing his foot over the wooden floor in weak attempt at nonchalance. He could feel his heart quicken even as it sank to the pit of his stomach. Varric let out a dismissive snort.

“What of him? Hawke and Blondie have been at odds lately. I have no idea what’s going on there, but I don’t think he’s going to be much help either. Looks like it’s up to you help him, elf.”

And Fenris longed to, anything to ease Hawke’s grief, but he just wasn’t sure how he of all people could do that. He wished he knew the right things to say, but in truth he could not even begin to fathom what it must be like to lose someone you love, at least not that he could remember. What good could come of expressing such meaningless sentiments, anyway? They were empty words if he did not speak from experience. He tried regardless, but when he opened his mouth in an effort to say something kind, what came out was a weak and rather callous remark instead, admitting his ignorance as if that somehow excused his lack of understanding. He regretted even attempting it when he looked up and saw the human’s strained expression, forcing a tight lipped smile across his face when he thanked him.

There was only one method Fenris knew to deal with emotional turmoil. It was the same way he snuffed out the memories of his time under Danarius and curbed the rage that roiled beneath his skin constantly. It was a simple solution: you get a bottle of booze and you drink until you can’t see straight anymore, drowning all those bad thoughts in a sea of alcohol at the price of a brutal hangover the next day. He had found that the discomfort was a price he was willing to pay for even the most temporary relief.

So the next time he got a portion of the earnings after cleaning out a small gang of bandits stirring up trouble around Lowtown, Fenris went on a special booze run. He stopped by Lirene’s shop and purchased a bottle of Ferelden whiskey with Hawke in mind. He almost made it all the way to the Amell estate sometime around noon before doubts set in. It occurred to him that the man probably didn’t want anything to do with him outside of the occasional job that required a bit of extra muscle and the additional perks of lyrium tattoos.

‘Why would he? Not after how I acted….’ The memory of it was like an itch, always nagging at him as he relived the same moment over and over in his head. He tortured himself on a damn near nightly basis with every realization of what he could have done differently instead of leading the other man right into that forsaken abomination’s arms. In his mind’s eye he could still picture that stricken look on the mage’s ruddy face as he pleaded with him to stay, how his brows had fixed together and creased his forehead. “We can work through this,” still rang in his ears, stuck with him as the moment he realized that Hawke truly cared about him. He was afraid of what that might mean; to trust was too difficult. He did not need to be reminded that intimacy was not a luxury an ex-slave could afford. And so he left the estate, grasping at smoke as he desperately tried to hold onto what he had remembered.

They hadn’t had a reading lesson in months, hadn’t even been alone with each other since then, so why would Hawke want to see him now? It wasn’t hard to deduce that his company would be less than desirable, especially when he was grieving the loss of his mother. Not to mention he had forgotten it wasn’t considered acceptable by most people to break out the hard liquor before lunch.

‘I’m such a fool. This was a terrible idea,’ he thought bitterly, ears burning as he turned around and began heading in the direction of his mansion instead. He didn’t even like whiskey and Hawke probably didn’t either. What a waste of good coin, spent on nothing but an whim.

Fenris hid himself away for the remainder of the daylight hours and drank cheap Antivan wine to calm his frazzled nerves. All the while he stared at the whiskey sitting on the table in front of him and thought of the bearish mage, disheartened and alone in his time of need. Hawke was always there for him when the warrior allowed him to be, dragging him along to take his wrath out on slavers instead of letting him get wasted by himself, holed up in his mansion for days on end. The elf’s guilty conscience continued to gnaw at his insides like a rat chewing through the threads of an already frayed rope with each swig he took from the bottle, hours slipping by as he warred with himself.

'For once he’s the one in need of help, and yet here I am, sitting here getting drunk after everything he’s done for me,’ he thought. 'But perhaps Varric is right. He might just need some time so he can clear his head.’ Fenris understood that much at least. Solitude provided him with a kind of solace that company could not. Being by himself allowed him to organize his disarray of thoughts, only to block them out with wine later when they threatened to overwhelm him.

'But Hawke isn’t like me. He needs others, and he should not have to suffer this alone.’ And so, full of liquid courage, he made up his mind that he had to rescue Garrett Hawke from his despair.

He snatched up the whiskey with a loud clank as his metal gauntlets struck against the glass and set off into Hightown again, still managing to adhere to a surprising amount of caution even in his soused state. His agility suffered greatly however, but he managed to hide in the shadows when he heard footsteps approaching, barely avoiding the patrolling guardsmen that came from around a corner. That was just what he needed–to be hauled off for public intoxication and spend the night locked up only to have Aveline jump down his throat in the morning. He let out the breath he’d unknowingly been holding in when the two men passed his hiding spot none the wiser, and stole off to the Amell estate.

But as he stood outside the door to Hawke’s estate with his hand poised to knock, he froze up again. He stood there for what felt like ages, reasoning that maybe Hawke was already asleep. Even if he wasn’t, Orana, Bodahn, and Sandal probably were, and it would be rude to wake them. Maybe he could return tomorrow…but what if he lost his nerve again when he sobered? Or maybe he could just give the whiskey to Isabela and forget about the whole thing. Before he could reach a final verdict, the doors swung open to reveal a rather disheveled looking mage. His hair was ruffled as if he’d been running his hands through it all day long, beard sticking out in patchy tufts.

“Fenris?“ He asked incredulously. The elf swayed where he stood for a moment before he remembered his purpose for being there and thrust the gift out toward Hawke. The human looked rather befuddled as he stared at the offering and then at Fenris, not reaching out to take it.

"For you.”

“Are you drunk?” He scoffed, looking him over with an arched brow.

“Quite. Now take it.” Just when he thought he might drop it did the mage finally accept it.

“Come inside,” Hawke said, stepping back and motioning him in. Fenris strode forward on wobbly legs and the larger man closed the door softly behind him. They stood there together as Hawke inspected the bottle, turning it over in his hands as he examined it carefully in the dim lighting.

“Ferelden even. How thoughtful of you,” he chuckled and popped the cork, sniffing at it. It caused him to wrinkle his nose and rub at his nostrils. “Ah, just as pungent as I remember.”

Fenris felt himself going red, the tips of his ears burning all over again. Of course he had made a poor choice in his selection and offended Hawke as a result. “I just thought that–”

“Can you stay for a while? Unless you have something urgent to attend to tomorrow, I could really use a bit of this right about now.”

“I don’t have any plans.”

“Excellent. Wait for me in the library and I’ll go get us some shot glasses,” Hawke said, pushing the bottle into his hands again and walking off. Taking a deep breath, Fenris brushed his bangs to the side and approached the door by the staircase.

The familiar musty smell of Hawke’s book collection brought an unbidden smile to his face, and he set the whiskey on Hawke’s desk in favor of going to the nearest available shelf. His gaze came to settle fondly on the primer Hawke had purchased for their first lesson. Just looking at it made his chest ache, and he reached out to stroke his index finger along its spine, remembering how patient Hawke had been as he explained the “i after e except after c” rule and its confusing exceptions at least half a dozen times. The sound of the door closing startled him out of his reverie, and he turned around quickly, stamping down on the feeling as quickly as it had arisen.

Hawke placed two shot glasses on to desk and then grabbed the corners, dragging it across the floor to the center of the room closer to the fireplace. He cringed at the loud scraping sound it produced against the tile and then crossed the room to pull up the chair for his guest. The mage pulled up the special delivery box and sat down upon it facing the statue Fenris hated before he motioned with one hand for elf to join him. The warrior obliged, misjudging the distance between his arse and the seat so that he plopped into it in a rather undignified manner.

“Here you go,” Hawke said, pouring half a shot for Fenris and sliding it to him before pouring a full one for himself. The warrior quirked an elegant brow as he lifted the glass to his lips.

“You doubt me?” He challenged lightly. The Ferelden gave a snort.

“You’re already hung, Fenris. Besides, you should taste the stuff first before you make that sort of commitment,” he said, and tossed back the shot with a hasty swallow. Air hissed through his teeth as he inhaled sharply. “But Maker do I love it. Got me piss drunk every time when I was a lad in Lothering.”

Fenris tipped his own shot into his mouth, and even in his inebriated state the whiskey burned his lips and tongue, all the way down his throat until it reached his stomach, leaving his belly feeling pleasantly warm. He let out a hiss of his own, sucking his teeth before removing his right gauntlet and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand where the liquid clung to his lips. “It is indeed potent,” he agreed.

Hawke was already pouring another shot for himself, reaching out and gesturing for Fenris to slide his glass over to him. “Another?”

The liquid sloshed around in Hawke’s eagerness, a small amount splashing onto the table as he sent the glass skidding to the warrior. It was the first time in Fenris’s experience that the second drink was worse than the first, so much so that he actually scrunched up his face and coughed as Hawke slammed his. The mage opened his hand again in a wordless offer, but Fenris shook his head and gestured vaguely for him to continue if he so pleased. Hawke drank his third shot, a small splash of whiskey spilling into his beard as he gulped his third, the drop catching the light as it slid toward the dark hair growing around his bobbing adam’s apple. The elf licked his lips and averted his gaze; he had no right to look. How a man could still be so appealing when he looked as if he’d been dragged facedown through Fade and back he didn’t know. He blamed it on the alcohol.

“Say Fenris, what did one book say to the other?” Normally the elf would have rolled his eyes, but the way Hawke was grinning at him gave him pause. He sighed.

“I don’t know, what?”

“Me either. I just wanted to see if we were on the same page,” he chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. It was the most genuine sound he’d heard from the mage in weeks. He let out a soft huff of amusement, shaking his head even as his lips turned upward in a little smile. “What about you, do you know any jokes?”

“None that I can think of,“ the warrior said, lapsing into thoughtful silence as he tried to recall if he had any humorous tales to share. He could not recall even a single pleasant memory that hadn’t been made in Hawke’s presence or recounted by one of their other companions already. Not to mention that thinking was proving to be quite a difficult task at that moment. He could feel the whiskey’s affects adding on to what he had started earlier with the wine, and his head was swimming as a result. He felt numb from head to toe, such a pleasant lack of sensation compared to the constant aching and stinging caused by his markings, but he was having some difficulty holding his head up, and his eyes didn’t seem to want to focus.

While Fenris tried to get ahold of himself, Hawke kept on drinking, five more shots going down the hatch and he was about to pour his sixth when Fenris realized he should probably slow him down. Even for a man of his size, the speed in which he was guzzling such strong liquor was more than ambitious. He willed himself to think hard, his eyes darting around the room for inspiration and finding none as he struggled to initiate small talk. He figured that if he at least opened his mouth something worthwhile might fall out.

“So tell me, Hawke,” Fenris began, his speech slurred even to his own ears. “What’s it like to…to be so intimately involved with an abomination?”

Almost as soon as he said it he regretted even trying to attempt conversation. The air between them felt thick as molasses and Hawke’s eyes grew large, his lips forming an ‘o’. The sudden roar of laughter that burst from the man’s chest made the elf jump and then the mage was doubling over, smacking his hand flat against the table. Fenris allowed himself a small chuckle of relief as the mage belted out loud, obnoxious guffaws, wondering if the noise had woken any of the estate’s other occupants. He wondered if maybe he should say something, but then who was he to hush a man in his own home?

“Your tact is as impressive as always,” Hawke chortled, wiping at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘intimately involved’, though. Unless you’re referring to that night he stopped by. That was pretty awkward.”

“Oh?” Fenris asked, leaning closer without realizing it, ears pricked. He’d seen how Anders had been eyeing Hawke since Isabela started gossiping, had gritted his teeth while he watched the two mages flirt in passing. But perhaps he had been too hasty in his assumption that the blond zealot had managed to move in on Hawke so quickly.

“Yeah. It was my fault for leading him on, though. I really should’ve put a stop to it when he kissed me at the clinic, but I was… I guess it just felt good to be wanted again after you uh… after we, you know…” Hawke cleared his throat and looked away, causing Fenris’s stomach to clench. “He came to me later that night but I turned him down. It would’ve been wrong to take advantage of him like that. He’s been touchy ever since.”

“I see.” Fenris said quietly. He couldn’t deny he felt a strong sense of satisfaction, which in turn only amplified his guilt. Hawke deserved to be happy; he was no Chantry brother so he couldn’t expect the man to abstain forever.

"Don’t take this the wrong way, but you were the last person I’d expect to come knocking at my door in the middle of the night with a bottle of booze.” As Hawke spoke, he made a sweeping motion with his hand, nearly knocking the half empty bottle off the table in the process. “Why are you here, exactly? Did Varric put you up to this?” He asked, his words running together. Fenris contemplated his response as carefully as he was capable of, but eloquence was beyond him at that point and lying took some amount of coherence. He decided half-truths were his best option.

“I thought you could use some company,” he said, scratching the side of his nose.

“Uh-huh.”

“Varric is worried about you.”

“I thought as much. So he sent you here to get me drunk since he can’t get me to go down to the Hanged Man? Charming.” The mage dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “I should’ve known. I’m sorry he dragged you into this.”

“There was no dragging involved. I came here of my own free will, Hawke. I know that you… That what you’re going through must be very difficult, even if I have no experience in the matter.” He felt like a fish out of water, flopping about on a dry, unfamiliar river bank. “Frankly I still don’t know what to say, but I can listen if that helps any.”

They stared at each other from across the table for what would have been an uncomfortably long period of time had they not been inebriated, each of them swaying in their seat, when the human ruined the moment with a unexpected belch. Luckily Fenris was too far gone to be offended, a little chuckle escaping him. Hawke laughed too, smiling at him in a sad but grateful sort of way.

“Thank you,” he said finally. “That means a lot.”

They both got quiet then, and Fenris felt the beginnings of fatigue set in, his eyelids growing heavier each time he blinked. He was vaguely aware that Hawke was trying to stand up, but was effectively startled when the large man toppled to the floor, resulting in a loud crash as he upended the box he’d been sitting on.

“Are you alright?” Fenris asked, getting to his feet and approaching his fallen friend while trying to maintain his balance. Hawke burst into a fit of laughter as the elf tried to grasp his hand and help him up, shaking his head as he scooted away on his butt until his back pressed against the closest wall.

“Just leave me here,” he sputtered in between hysteric giggles. “This is where I belong anyway.” Fenris’s brow furrowed, the sound of the mage’s hysterical laughter making him uncomfortable. It wasn’t a happy sound, not like how he had been laughing just a little while ago.

“On the floor?” Fenris asked in confusion. Hawke’s laughter hiccupped and suddenly there were tears in his eyes, fat drops running down his cheeks and catching in his beard. The sound morphed into a gut wrenching sob as he pulled his right leg to his chest and rested his forehead against his knee.

“Garrett?” The elf stepped closer, unsure of what he should do. This was not how he foresaw the evening going at all, although he hadn’t really known what to expect to begin with.

“I failed them, Fenris. They trusted me and I failed them,” Hawke moaned, the misery he had been unsuccessfully trying to hide for weeks soaking through his voice like blood through cloth. “I wish it had been me instead. Maker, why couldn’t it have been me?“ He wheezed breathlessly, dropping his leg and letting his head fall against the stone wall with a thud. He sniffled loudly and lifted his large hands to his face, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes as if that might stop the flood.

Without really knowing what he was doing Fenris found himself getting down on his knees in front of Hawke and carefully prying his hands away from his wet face. The pain in normally guarded brown eyes was stark, an ugly wound bared to the warrior for the first time. He pulled the larger man into his arms, guiding his forehead to his throat and feeling the weight of Hawke’s burden rest against his shoulder. Slender fingers combed through dirty, tangled hair until he moved his palm lower, gently petting the sweat damp nape of the man’s thick neck while he cried.

"What if I fail you too, Fenris? I couldn’t live with myself if I let anything happen to you,” he croaked, slinging an arm around the elf’s slim waist, a clenched and shaking fist pressed against the small of his back. Fenris found himself holding onto the mage tighter, the walls of his throat squeezing on all sides so that it wasn’t easy for him to speak.

“You won’t,” the elf soothed. The human gave a snort and let his arm fall away. “Nothing is going to happen to me.”

“Right,” he muttered. Fenris wasn’t sure what to say to that, and so he began hoisting the drunken human to his feet by hooking his elbows unders the mage’s armpits.

“I think it’s time we get you to bed.”

“But I’m not tired,” Hawke complained, half-heartedly reaching for the whiskey still on the table.

“You might not be, but I am. Now come on,” he insisted, slinging the Ferelden’s thick right arm over his narrow shoulders, half dragging him as the mage’s legs shook beneath him.

“Alright, alright. But promise me you’ll stay the night. I don’t want you out by yourself, wandering about drunk in Hightown.”

“I’ll be fine, I assure you,” Fenris sighed, and they’d nearly made it to the stairs when Hawke came to a dead stop, moving his free hand to grip the warrior’s bicep. The heat of his palm radiated against the elf’s skin, fingers squeezing meaningfully and causing his heart to stutter.

“Please.” Looking into those damp, pleading eyes, he couldn’t find it in himself to deny the simple request while beholding such a pitiful visage.

“I’ll stay until I’m sober. Now move your legs lest I drag you up the stairs by your wrist.” It took quite a bit of effort on both their parts to make it to Hawke’s room, but eventually they made it to the mage’s bedside. Fenris pulled free of Hawke’s arm and gave him a small shove so that he fell onto the mattress, bouncing once with half of his body spilling over the edge. The warrior scooped up his legs behind the knees and dropped them onto the bed, then helped situate the human on his side with a pillow under his head lest he vomit. Hawke looked up at him all the while, blinking one eye at a time as the whiskey continued to work him over further into a stupor. Satisfied, Fenris turned to walk over to the chest by the door where he might sleep off the worst of his intoxication.

“You know I love you, right?” Hawke mumbled. Fenris drew up short, not so much as breathing, as his head twitched the side. His tongue went numb behind his teeth when he heard a soft snore. Silently he thanked the Maker and continued toward his destination, letting his back slide against the wall until his bottom touched the strongbox.

The warrior stayed for a while, occasionally waking up to make sure Hawke was still breathing before closing his eyes again. He left a couple of hours later, just as the sun began to rise and long before the mage woke up. He retrieved his gauntlet from the library and headed home to his mansion to nurse the worst hangover he’d had in months.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think Garrett was really able to mourn the deaths of his family in the game, and I was a little dissatisfied with how the comfort scene played out with Fenris, so I wrote this. With that said, drinking when you're sad is a horrible idea, don't do it.


End file.
